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ETA: we now have a discussion post! for anything you want to talk about. ETA2: we have a delicious account! it's only got the first ten pages of prompts at the moment, but mod is very slowly adding the rest. mod would greatly appreciate it if you put keywords in the subject of your prompts, because figuring out one-word summaries is hard. (for anyone who doesn't have a delicious account/hates the page style, use this link)

FILL [1/2]: Vanessa/Karen, seduction

Karen doesn't fidget while Ms. Marianna glances over her resume. Half of it is made up, but Foggy's got connections, friends of friends and former clients who owe him favors, so it'll hold up. Long enough to get the information they need, at any rate.

Unfortunately, even if she does get dirt on the rallying remnants of Fisk's organization, they can only use it for leverage. It won't be admissible in court; Matt had said something about poisoned fruit? She's not Snow White, but she does kinda feel like she's in the crosshairs of an evil queen when Ms. Marianna skims her gaze over to evaluate Karen as dispassionately as she had the resume.

"You're applying for the gallery position," Ms. Marianna says. It's not a question, but she pauses to see Karen's reaction anyway.

"Yes, ma'am," Karen says, straightening her shoulders, lifting her chin. "I've always wanted to run my own gallery, but I need experience, you know..."

Ms. Marianna gives her the echo of a smile. "Oh, I know," she says. "It's nice to see an applicant with real ambition, though. There are far too many idle rich girls who treat the job as a novelty that'll give their art history degrees some legitimacy and provide access to broody young artists or rich, eligible bachelors." She sets Karen's resume aside with a sigh. "And they're right, of course. It's just such a waste of time to repeat the hiring process every six months."

"Well, I'm not one to judge," Karen says, smiling and dropping her gaze. "I kind of had my own 'brooding artist' once." It's not even a lie; her relationship history is pretty colorful.

"To tell the truth," Ms. Marianna says, dropping her voice to a stage whisper, "So did I." Karen laughs, just as she's supposed to, and the other woman's smile becomes warmer, more genuine. Almost like she's not a violent crimelord's fiancee and rumored understudy.

"Well, if it's any consolation, I think I got it out of my system?" Karen offers.

Ms. Marianna interrupts her with an uplifted hand. "However, after your first interview, my hiring manager suggested you for another position. One for which your skillset is better suited."

"Oh?" Karen asks. "And what would that be, Ms. Marianna?"

The other woman's smile gets wider, sly and certain. "My personal assistant," she says, and Karen just barely keeps herself from gaping. She gives Karen another once-over, slower this time. "The job is yours, if you want it - on two conditions."

Karen licks her lips, somehow more nervous at being offered the job than coming in here to begin with. "What- What conditions?" she asks, voice steady through sheer force of will, promising herself a really strong drink after this.

"First, we need to get you a new wardrobe. You seem to have a good eye, but a terrible budget. I'll fix the latter."

"Um, thank you, I don't know what to-"

"It's a business expense," Ms. Marianna says, flicking her fingers in dismissal. "It won't do to have you giving the wrong impression to my business associates."

"Well, I'm still grateful, Ms. Marianna," Karen says. She tucks her hair behind her ear. "What's the other condition?"

"Call me Vanessa." Her voice is rich and warm, lifting all the hair on the back of Karen's neck. "Welcome to the family, Karen."

Matt/Any - Matt meets the Avengers

Can be anything. Maybe a gang Daredevil is trying to beat up is connected to an Avengers mission. Maybe Tony wants to hire Nelson & Murdock as the lawyer for the team. Just want interactions between Matty and the Avengers.

Any pairing is allowed. Would also like to see a paring between Matt and any of the Avengers, but that's not necessary.

Foggy/Karen - exhibitionism

Re: Foggy/Karen - exhibitionism

Foggy presses her against the wall, yelling "I drank the eel, Matty." She giggles and gasps into his mouth when he slips his hand into her shirt, toying with the edge of her bra. It's not a even cute one, she thinks. If I'd have known this was going to happen I would have worn my lace one. She thinks about saying that to Foggy but his hand cups her breastfeeding and she moans instead. He whispers, "Can't be too loud, the lady across the hall has very keen hearing."

"What about Matt?," she says back softly, trying to catch her breath. This is a bad idea, but she's not gonna stop it just yet. She may or not have a knack for bad ideas anyway.

"Well, if Matt hears, and comes out....we'll deal with it when it happens. Right now, I want to get you off."

He slides his hand under her waistband and past her panties, she's gasping agin. Oh, yeah, this is definitely a bad idea, but he's touching her so softly and shes always been very responsive. Her orgasm trembles through her, and she bites her lips to keep the noise down.

Foggy's pupils are blown wide and he kisses her like a drowning man.

And the door across the hall is wrenched open, and Foggy and her flee the scene of the crime.

Re: Matt/Claire - literal torture porn

((I'm not going to freak out that posting on anon means that I can't fix errors after the fact. I'm not. Really.))

---

"Hydra," Matt tells her, and "some kind of bioweapon," he says. "I need him to live. I need him to talk." He's still wearing his cowl, so she can't see his whole face, but his voice is earnest and urgent.

Claire looks at the hunched stranger propped against the brick, curled protectively around a visibly-broken arm and a steadily-blooming wetness on one side of his shirt. It glistens black in the dim light, but it's a sure bet that it's really a rich crimson. Despite the pain he must be in, he's still defiant, glare steady over a swelling nose and a red-rimmed sneer.

At least it's not Matt she'll be mending tonight. And what does it say that she'd rather be healing some random henchman than her... well. Whatever.

"You should talk," she informs her new patient. "The sooner you do, the sooner I can patch you up."

"Hail Hydra," the man wheezes, spitting onto the rooftop gravel between them, gross and thick with mucous and possibly a bit of lung.

"Fuck this," she says, her usual professional concern already in tatters and shredding finer now that she has to play nice with this neo-Nazi shitstain. She crouches down, still out of range but at a level to return his glare. "You should really talk," she says, low and even.

"Claire," Matt says, responding to something in her voice, in her heartbeat maybe. That's fine.

"I had friends in DC," she informs the agent. "My cousin's fiancee worked for SHIELD and he didn't know until her body turned up in pieces in the Potomac three weeks later. So don't make any pretenses at having the same kind of loyalty she did unless you want to prove it the same way she did."

The agent looks contemptuous; admittedly, she didn't dress to intimidate after she got Matt's call when she threw on her striped maxidress, but fuck it, she was in a hurry. She can fix that impression real quick, though. She stands up, looks at Matt. "I'll get my kit."

Matt nods, looking a little stunned at the edge in her tone, eyebrows lifted and a disbelieving curl to the corner of his mouth.

That's just fine.

***

They have to muffle his screams with a towel as Claire sets the bone, none too gently and with perhaps slightly less efficiency than she could have. They stay on the roof. "We can throw him off if we need to," Matt tells her. She bares her teeth at him fleetingly, wondering if he can discern the nuances of smiles, whether he can tell warm humor from grim.

There's a wide, ugly stab wound just under her patient's collarbone that she prods with two gloved fingers. "Did you stab him with a piece of glass?" she asks, seeing a glint past the now-sluggish blood.

"He might have taken a short trip through a large window," Matt admits.

"Ah," she says, then pulls the towel from over the agent's mouth. "All right, Klaus," she says, hearing Matt's laugh near her shoulder, "This can hurt a little or a lot. Whaddya say?"

'Klaus' presses his mouth into a thin line and looks away.

"Get me the pliers," she says, setting the narrower, more precise surgical forceps aside. Matt complies without a word, and she moves the towel back into place.

She tells Matt where to cut, how to angle in from the outside to avoid the saphenous vein. "...I don't know how to describe it," she says, fumbling for words. "It feels like-"

"Show me," Matt says, and she guides his fingers over the subtle landscape of ligaments and tendons.

"There," she says, pressing into the hollow, "right under-"

"Guitar strings," he tells her, and she sees the flash of his smile in the dark. "They feel like guitar strings."

"I've never been very musically-inclined," she replies. "But I'll keep that in mind."

Matt presses the blade in and under and in, and their patient gives a prolonged, muffled shout that tapers off into faint sobbing.

"How about you, Klaus?" she says. "Can you sing?"

***

Claire's not Matt, doesn't have whatever abilities he's developed to read people more reliably than sight. But when she settles back on her heels after after one last check over their patient, she finds that Matt hasn't moved from his crouch behind her. He's radiating heat, close but cautious, clearly still poised to follow her lead. His breath fans in an unsteady rhythm along the side of her neck.

"I can't believe you enjoy this," she comments, her heart tripping in her chest. Klaus is lying on his side, facing away from them, silent and still. Alive, but hopefully regretting that fact if he somehow hasn't passed out from the pain.

"I enjoy watching you work," Matt replies equably.

Claire doesn't make the cheap quip, doesn't deflect or move away. She twists, instead, grit grinding under her knees. "I enjoy working with you," she says, "instead of on you."

"Thought you liked the perks," he says, grin cutting wicked and wide across his face. It's impossible for her to resist, her skin prickling electric from adrenaline and success. She leans in, tastes the curl of his mouth and the sharp edge of his teeth as she licks her way in.

Matt brings a hand up to cup her face, adding the scents of sweat and leather and copper to the air. She can almost taste it, too. He makes a frustrated noise, pulling away to strip both gloves off, his bare fingertips tracing her cheek as he ducks back in to kiss her again, more insistent.

She pushes back, pushes up into the arc of him, her own hands - gloved in blue, streaked in red - gripping his spread knees. He shouldn't be able to keep his balance like this, but he's steady anyway, pulling her close.

"Matt," she murmurs, "You should-"

"We have time," he assures her, his touch ghosting down her jaw, her neck. She expects him to curve his hand around her breast, and her nipples tighten in anticipation, but instead, he places his palm against her chest, just over her heart.

She presses her lips in the hollow just under the angle of his jaw, feeling his pulse jump.

"Claire," he says, voice raw. His other hand is toying with the hem of her skirt.

We shouldn't, she thinks, but aloud she says, "Yes."

His fingers skim up her thigh, drag a line inward to where she's already wet and wanting. The pleased noise he makes in the back of his throat makes her flush, faintly abashed at the reckless rush of this, but she just kisses him again, bracing her knees wide as he pushes past elastic and cotton and then in.

Whatever his armor is, it makes the material of her gloves stutter under her palms as she strokes up the line of his thighs, the firm muscle she knows is there obfuscated by the layers between them. Irritated, she hooks one elbow behind his arm to peel off her gloves and toss them to the side.

Fortunately, his hero suit's structured like proper clothing, belt and waistline and fly just where she expects them, no weird catches to trip her up as she seeks skin. He moans, then, helplessly, trying to rock into her palm with only partial success. She uses her other hand on his chest to nudge him, and he takes her cue, rolling back gracefully to his haunches, his back.

Claire follows, crawling up his body, catching the ends of her skirt so it doesn't snag under her knees. As she twists to kick off her underwear, gravel digs into her shins, sharp pain that cuts through the fog of her haste. She tucks her hair behind her ear and looks down at Matt. His expression is open and imploring, face tipped in the way she's learned means that he's absolutely focused. "Claire," he says.

She bends down to kiss him for a long moment, slick and dirty. "Yes," she tells him in a breath across his lips before she adjusts, tilting her hips, and sinks down onto him. His head goes back, throat arching prettily, his incisors cutting into his lower lip as he chokes back a groan.

Matt brackets her hips with a careful grip, rolling under her like a wave, slow and smooth. Some other time, Claire thinks, and sets her teeth into his neck, just above his collar. "Come on," she says, and he huffs a laugh into her hair.

"You're the boss," he says, and she nips him again just as he picks up the pace. There are a thousand little things she'd have changed if this were anything like planned - using a bed, or at least a cleaner flat surface, having fewer clothes hindering full range of movement - but it's still better than it has any right to be. She can feel the first sparks along her nerve endings, and it's not that it's been a while, it's that it's Matt under her, fucking up into her with the single-minded intensity that he generally reserves for less pleasant pursuits.

And Christ, he's good with his hands, she thinks as he reaches between them to stroke two calloused fingertips along either side of her clit, gradually increasing the pressure according to some timetable he's got for driving her out of her goddamned mind.

"Matt," she pants, sitting up, and "Matt," she repeats, edging into a plea.

"Yeah," he replies, "Yeah, c'mon Claire. Let me hear you." Behind her, his bootheels scrape against the grit as he braces against her counter-rhythm. Then he shifts the angle of his wrist, and her orgasm knocks all the air from her lungs in a rush, sudden and shocking. As it turns out, even exceptional willpower has its limits; Matt's tempo staggers and his body goes taut below her as he lets out a low moan through bared teeth.

Claire rides it out, grinding in little circles, chasing aftershocks as she gasps. "Oh my god," she says finally, and Matt laughs, loose-limbed and relaxed as she so rarely gets to see him. Reality filters in, piecemeal. "Oh Christ, we're on the roof."

"Really not a surprise," he responds. It's not an unfair comment, but she thwacks him in the chest anyway. He chuckles at her again when the armor makes her palm sting.

"Also: you're in the suit," she points out, "and we're next to an unconscious-" Matt's cheek twitches, and she pauses. "Matt."

(Karen/)Foggy/Matt - vouyerism

It's not possible to live in close proximity to Foggy and Matt and not know that something's going on there. Karen just wasn't sure that they knew something was going on there, so when she walked into the office one day and was met by the sight of Foggy on his knees with Matt's dick in his mouth, well, she wasn't so much surprised as she was startled that they didn't stop.

But then, of course. Foggy had his back to her, Matt was behind his desk, and they were occupied-- they hadn't noticed her come in, hadn't heard her put her purse down and hang her coat up, and thank god she hadn't called out and asked if anyone had made coffee yet. Had they even left last night? An addled all-nighter made more sense here than a good-morning blowjob when they knew she usually came in an hour from now.

Another thing that didn't make sense: she was rooted in Matt's office doorway, watching them. He had his face turned towards her, his mouth hung open, his glasses were off, and his hand held back a messy fistful of Foggy's hair to give her a great view of the proceedings. A thick cock, shockingly pink and slick with Foggy's spittle. As she stood there, breathing shallowly, Foggy pulled back and off, took a moment, then took the whole thing down with a wet, obscene noise from the back of his throat. Matt's head rolled back. His jaw clenched and clenched. Karen found that she was pressing her hands over her hips, down her thighs.

She shouldn't be here, she shouldn't be seeing this. They'd hate that she was seeing this, Foggy at least would be embarrassed. So she bit her lip and kept her breathing light. She slipped out of her shoes so that they wouldn't make a sound on the wood slat floor. Foggy was swallowing and swallowing, drool coming out the side of his mouth. Karen untucked her shirt and palmed her own breast. Matt inhaled like a drowning man.

Foggy finally let up and pulled off. Matt's dick came from between his lips with an audible pop, and Matt keened, just a bit, between clenched teeth. Quiet as a mouse, Karen slipped a hand beneath the elastic waist of her skirt. Her fingers met her wet panties just as Foggy let out a soft laugh. She pressed against her already-swollen clit and held back a moan. Foggy's hands were at Matt's hips, his thumbs brushing at the small portion of exposed skin. Even from the doorway she could see a bruise lying like a puddle on Matt's hipbone. About the size of a thumb. Foggy avoided it, leaned back in, and ghosted a breath over the reddened head of Matt's cock.

"Shit," Matt said, and Karen winced, but then saw it had nothing to do with her. "Christ, c'mon, just... Just..."

"Fuck you," Matt breathed out. Foggy chuckled. Karen rolled the heel of her palm against herself hard, hard, hard again. She could only just see the corner of Foggy's mouth, red and shiny.

With half a smile, Matt clenched his hand in Foggy's hair. She heard him hiss. Then, with a gentleness that she mirrored in her own movements, Matt brushed a thumb across Foggy's lips and smeared the wetness there onto his cheek. She saw him lean his head into Matt's hand and press his nose to Matt's hard cock, breathe in. More than anything up til now, that moment felt intimate, and the guilt of seeing it rolled low in her stomach.

Then Foggy's tongue slipped out and laved at Matt's dick, up and down the shaft, around and around the head, and he took Matt in his mouth again and they moved together, Matt's hips hitching up just a bit from his chair and Foggy grappling with his hips for purchase. Karen heard the messy, choked sound of them together. She pushed aside her panties and got her clit between her thumb and forefinger, pulling at it as she struggled against the pleasure to keep her eyes open and her breathing quiet.

It isn't too long until Matt was panting, letting out small, low grunts, and Foggy wrapped a hand around the base of his dick and squeezed, leaned his head back to catch Matt's come on his lips and chin. Karen couldn't help it, she tripped back and whined, just a little. Before she could see if they'd noticed, she ducked into the pantry, her own orgasm sparking along with her, making her stumble.

It was dark in there, it smelled like burnt coffee and hot printer paper. She held her palm between her legs and pressed, wringing the last bursts of sensation out of her body.

"Um, hey."

"Oh, god!" She jumped nearly out of her skin, stuttering on stocking feet while rearranging her skirt and blouse. "Hi!" She said too loudly. "Hi, hey! Hi, good morning, Foggy, hello. Did anyone make coffee? Nobody made coffee, so I'm making...coffee."

[FILL] Matt/Foggy - Pressure Points PG13

Foggy hasn't worried himself into a headache since law school finals, hunched over his books for hours until his muscles were rocks and he was suddenly throwing up from the pain radiating through his head. The irony being he almost missed them because of studying.

This time, though, it's completely Matt's fault. Matthew Murdock, not just a pain in the ass anymore! Ugh, it hurts to be sarcastic right now. It hurt to be alive, and he wonders if any of Matt's murderous friends would like to drop by and save him from the pain.

He whimpers as a sliver of light cuts across his vision, tucking his head underneath the closest pillow even as that small movement makes his gorge rise. His skin feels too hot, the sheets too rough, sound too loud. There's only one person who'd be here, though, which means—

"G'way," he manages to grit out.

"Foggy..." Matt's voice is perfect. Low and rolling, soothing where every other sound is sharp as a knife. The cause of his headache is the only thing he can stand at the moment. That’s not at all something he should read into. Nope.

Foggy doesn't answer, just tries to breathe though another swell of pain. It would be really fitting if he threw up on Matt, right? Maybe not on him, on him, but like…on his shoes?

"Jesus, Foggy. You should have called."

Foggy, past meaningful verbal communication, grunts from underneath his pillows and hopes Matt knows it mean, What could you do, Matt? Would you even pick up your phone? This is all your fault, you stupid, insane bastard. Why are you here? Go away, Dread Pirate Roberts, I would like to suffer in--hoshitwhat the HELL.

Matt's hands settle over his neck and head, warm and soothing as his voice until fingers of steel press into the knots on his neck, at certain places on his skull and—a flash of pain that leaves his vision sparking, but when Matt's (glorious, wonderful, amazing) hands lift away the pain has faded to something manageable: a throbbing tension headache behind his eyes. The relief is so instantaneous Foggy starts feeling loopy, high on endorphins he doesn't really need any more, but he'll take them in exchange for the past few hours of unrelenting pain.

Matt doesn't stop, though. His magic hands trail down Foggy's back, pushing and kneading all the tension and stress away. He finds every problem spot with unerring accuracy, makes Foggy shout and dig his fingers into the mattress because it hurts like a mofo. It’s hands down the best massage Foggy has ever had. When Matt’s done, searched and destroyed every problem spot, he becomes one with his mattress.

Matt’s hands are now lightly, pleasantly rubbing Foggy down. He pauses occasionally to roll his knuckles over certain places, nowhere any other masseuse has paid attention to, but Foggy don’t care ‘cause he feels gooooooood. So good. Too good?

"I know how to do more than just hit people, Foggy," Matt says in that annoyingly even tone of his. Foggy would try for indignant but he's too relaxed and too high. He huffs a laugh devoid of humor because he's still mad. Still trying to wrap his mind around Matt's utterly insane life choices, but fuck it. He's not firing on all cylinders, and Matt, in addition to dressing up like the world's most basic superhero, is a massage savant.

And that's when Foggy realizes his tension hasn't gone away, it's just fled a little further south than his neck and shoulders.

He tries to be cool about it, just, you know, normal biological reaction, right? Happens to people all the time. Nothing to see here, nope. No siree Bob. He’s just gonna—

“The body works together as a whole, Foggy. I’m rather intimately familiar with its mechanics.” Foggy contemplates just how much Matt’s words aren’t helping him with his problem. “Now turn over so I can finish you off.”

“You know, I think I’m really good, your hands are like stress be gone. So thanks, even though this was your fault, it was nice, I’m just gonna take a na—“

“Foggy.” He knows that tone of voice. That’s the one Matt gets when he’s decided to do something and God help anyone who gets in his way. Silence stretches between them until Foggy sighs and rolls over, making sure his lower half stays under the covers. Dammit, Matt.

He covers his eyes with his arm because Matt can’t see details (right? Shit.) and it’s only fair that Foggy meet him on equal ground, and he’s always been a fan of that ‘out of sight, out of mind’ thing. (Though if Matt were interested in being fair, he, too, would be fighting the very visible tension in his own body.) He starts thinking about other things: the money he could have been making with Landman & Zack, Marci calling him ‘Foggy Bear’ in front of the partners, that time he destroyed an art student’s final project… None of it’s working, but there’s always the possibility that Matt won’t know, right?

“Do you have any idea what you smell like?”

“I don’t…what?” He realizes he’s spent most of Matt’s visit feeling completely out of his depth. Also, the smell thing is so weird and what exactly is Matt implying here?

Matt leans in and sniffs him which, ok, apparently Foggy’s discovered a new kink. Or maybe he’s just decided everything Matt does works for him because it kind of does? Even the whole man-in-black thing is kind of hot, bruises not withstanding, and—

“Foggy.”

“Yes! What, ah, I mean…yes?” Matt laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling in genuine amusement, and then presses the softest kiss to Foggy’s lips. Oh. OH. Oh wow. He’s pretty sure Matt knew exactly what his massage was doing to Foggy. Bastard.

“You learn that in kung fu spy class too?” Foggy accuses.

“No,” Matt says, and kisses Foggy again. “Might have…extrapolated a couple things.” Foggy sighs and gives in, pulls Matt into a kiss because the man cured him of a headache and busted out the seduction techniques.

Matt/Foggy, human lie detector

5 times Matt let Foggy get away with lying to him, and one time he didn't. (or something like that, idk. just something where Foggy pretends that he isn't attracted to Matt and Matt lets him, until he doesn't.)

Matt/Claire - roleplay, sort of

Matt's having a drink at Josie's when Claire walks in. They pretend not to know each other. She picks him up. Maybe they bang in the alleyway. Maybe he just fingers her right there in the bar. Maybe both.

[fill] Matt/Claire - roleplay, sort of

man, sorry this ended up being a lot more introspective than straight up porn but i hope that's ok and that you like this! ♥ ty for the prompt :D (spoilers through the season finale)

the entire history of human desire

Generally speaking, Claire doesn't go out much on her nights off duty. She prefers the relative serenity of listening to the sirens through a barrier of flimsy plaster rather than up close and personal. It's a refreshing change of pace after back-to-back night shifts in the ER. Sometimes, when she isn't so exhausted that she passes out, she might even read a book. Catch an episode of SVU on TV. But—you know. If Wilson Fisk's arrest isn't enough to warrant celebration, then really, what is?

Half of Hell's Kitchen seems to feel the same way. The first two places she hits are chrome and slick, loud music pouring out of the open doors. Clearly aimed at clientele falling under the hard-partying undergrad umbrella. The establishments aren't bad, and some of the drinks are even pretty good, but she's dealt with enough college kids and stomach pumps to last several lifetimes. She pulls her phone out after ejecting herself from the second bar, head still a bit woozy from the last cocktail she'd finished before sidestepping some frat bro making a beeline toward her. At the curb, she rolls her wrist. Almost dials Matt's number from memory, thumbs wavering over the keyboard. Funny, how a masked vigilante happens to be the first person her mind goes to for company. Funny and scary and sad, like clowns, or Where Are They Now? specials.

Or maybe not, considering who's probably responsible for the all this celebration anyway. Maybe it's only appropriate. She gets the 212 in, fingers still hovering over the keys—and then the wind picks up again, chilly for Manhattan in late September. Sweeps the cobwebs right out of her head. Claire pauses at the stoplight, screen blinking up at her, and puts her phone away.

There's a divey bar three blocks up, across the street from the old movie theater. Above the filthy windows, a neon sign proudly proclaims JOSIE'S in blocky cursive, though the apostrophe's in pretty bad shape and the "I" keeps flickering. Through the entrance, she can hear the dull murmur of conversation, glasses clinking, the smack of billiard balls colliding. No bass, thankfully. "Third time's the charm," she mutters, tucking a hand in her pocket.

The interior's dim. Claire lets her eyes adjust to the darkness, head turning to take in the milieu. She vaguely recognizes one of the guys playing pool in the back, and spends a moment wondering why before she marshals her thoughts and remembers—two weeks ago he'd rushed his daughter into the ER for a humerus fracture. Claire remembers every face she saw the night Fisk bombed the Russians. There's no dawning light of realization when the man looks up from the green felt to meet her gaze, but she smiles anyway.

Isn't until she gets to the bar that she sees him. It's almost surreal, sliding onto the stool only to find, one seat down, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen dressed in his Sunday best—or, at least, just something more presentable than a torn up, sweat-soaked muscle shirt. Not that the muscle shirt's all bad. This is just—different. The dress shirt and suit jacket cut his body into crisper lines. He's got a glass of something clear in his left hand, and the cane in his right. Light glints off the lenses of his dark glasses like inverted pupils. He looks, for all intents and purposes, strangely at home in the scummy comfort of this bar. And then he turns and looks straight at her.

"I'd advise against it," comes a rumbling voice from behind the bar. Claire starts, eyes snapping forward. A heavyset woman in her late forties nods over the counter, scrubbing at a glass with the grimy dishrag in her hand. "That one's trouble. Always has been, always will be."

"Thanks, Josie," Matt says, grinning. He opens his mouth again, and closes it. His hand clenches around the cane. A near-imperceptible tilt of the head. Claire raises an eyebrow, throat tight. Maybe he hears it in her heartbeat. "So, if it isn't rude to ask of a stranger, what brings someone like you to a place like this?"

"Here it goes," Josie says, rolling her eyes, and retreats to the far end of the bar. The safer side, all things considered.

Claire props her chin on a palm and leans in. "What do you mean, someone like me?"

"You just don't seem like the type."

"Hmm," Claire says, tapping a finger against her cheek. "What makes you so sure?"

"I can tell," Matt says. He eases out of his stool to sit next to her, swirling the liquid in his glass. "By your voice. The perfume you wear." He smiles again, "That you're even wearing perfume at all."

"It's my night off," Claire says, dry. She glances back at the grizzled guys playing pool and the two shady-looking bouncers hanging back in the eaves. "I thought I could use a drink. To celebrate."

"Celebrate," Matt repeats, shifting in his chair. "What for?"

Claire gestures at the old TV above the bar, and then remembers she isn't supposed to know. "Sorry, I just pointed at the TV," she says, apologetic, and bites back the urge to laugh when the corner of Matt's mouth jumps.

"Josie," he says. "Turn that up, will you?"

Josie grumbles, but pulls the remote out from behind the counter, along with a whiskey sour Claire orders. It's the Fisk news, of course. Been playing all night on repeat, biggest story in Hell's Kitchen since the Union Allied bust. They listen to the newscaster for a minute. Claire turns away when a photo of Mrs. Cardenas flashes on the screen.

"You know, I always thought there was something not quite right about him," Josie's saying, still wiping that ubiquitous glass, but Matt pulls his glasses off and looks at Claire. Seems to, anyway. If it weren't for the angle, slightly off, so that his eyes stare off at a point just above her ear,

She sticks her hand out, for wont of something to do, and slips it in his, cold from the sweating glass. He clasps it, squeezing gently. "I'm Claire," she says, and glances around the bar again. "You're right. This isn't my usual speed. But it isn't bad."

"My name is Matt," he says, like it's the first time. "What do you do, Claire?"

"Work night shifts at the Metropolitan General. And you?"

"I'm a defense attorney by trade," he says, and stops there.

So maybe she's three drinks deep and counting. Maybe that's why she allows it, too loose and unwound to tamp it down. Allows herself to think, for one crystalline moment, what it would've been like to meet him here. The first time, instead of dragging him out of a goddamn dumpster. What she might have done if she'd gotten this, the charming, scruffy lawyer with terrible hair and an even more terrible smile—if she would've brought him home, or gone to his apartment with the rough furniture and pixelated cherry blossoms. If she would've stayed the night. "I see," Claire manages, voice even. "One of those."

"One of those," Matt agrees amiably. His voice swoops low, then. Takes on a rougher quality, one that Claire recognizes from that first night on the roof. "But tonight, I'm just a man enjoying the company of a captivating woman."

She feels her throat tighten, and wonders if he can feel it too, the deepening pressure just above her collarbone. Wonders if he can sense the rest—what desire and need sound like in a human heart, in the way blood rushes up to kiss the skin, the curl of her tongue, the gentle sway of her body toward his. Toward the inevitable conclusion. There are so many things she wants to ask, and any one of them would break the delicate farce playing out between them.

A muscle in his jaw clenches. He's close enough now that she can see the beginnings of a bruise blooming along the arc of his cheekbone. Matt exhales, leans in the rest of the way, and kisses the corner of her mouth. Once, just the barest brush of his lips.

"Get a room, Matty," Josie says, supremely unimpressed.

Claire rears back a little, eyes dropping to his mouth. "Matt," she says, sounding funny even in her own ears. "Your nose is bleeding."

He wipes the blood off with a crumpled tissue, outside in the alley behind Josie's. Claire slides a hand in his hair and tilts his head back so it rests against the wall. His profile's backlit by the one lamp swinging from the side of the building. "That should make it better," she says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Trust me, I'm a nurse."

Matt chuckles. Claire watches his neck bob. "I'm okay, really."

"You sure?"

"I just had a rough night," he says, and the corner of his mouth jumps again. "Ended well, though."

"Hasn't ended yet, has it?"

Claire grins when she registers the faint flicker of surprise that crosses his face. Good to know not everything's preordained in the beat of her heart. She closes the distance this time, crowding him back against the wall, catching his lower lip. The broad expanse of his chest is warm against hers. Matt tastes like whatever it was he was drinking, vodka maybe, sharp and spicy. If she concentrates, she can still smell the dirt beneath the fresh suit—or maybe it's just the alley they're in, swallowing them up in the low light. She can afford to be stupid once, in this game they're playing. Just two strangers pushing at each other in the dark. Nothing unusual for him.

She feels a big hand come up to settle at her hip, the scrape of his thumb across her skin. The other hand cups her elbow, fingers wrapping around to feel for her pulse.

"Claire," he mumbles, tongue trailing along the edge of her teeth. "Claire. Can I—?"

She doesn't speak. He must hear what he needs in the rapid ticking of her heart, because he flips her over, pins her to the wall, thumbs hooking into the loops of her jeans. It's still chilly out, but Matt's like a fucking furnace. Like fire and brimstone, the devil himself come up to meet her.

She gasps at the first flick of a finger against her clit, more shocked than anything. She feels herself loosen up as Matt kisses her again. The heel of his palm chases his finger, hand cupping her through the fabric of her underwear. She makes a strangled noise in the back of her mouth, can't help the tell-tale roll of her hips. When she spits in her palm and fumbles for the zipper of his pants, he doesn't stop her. He's hard already, straining against his boxer briefs. She reaches in and wraps a hand around his erection. Matt freezes. Claire feels his arms tense. His head falls to her shoulder for a minute, breath hot against the hollow of her collarbone.

"Alright?" she asks, turning her mouth to his ear.

"Just been a while," he says, and groans when she squeezes her hand.

Claire laughs, can't help herself. Yelps when Matt retaliates by pressing firmer against the wet crotch of her panties. "Yeah, yeah. Me too."

He crooks a finger inside her, then, the pad of his thumb worrying at her clit. Claire's knees lock to keep her upright, warmth lurching in her stomach. She smoothes her palm up the length of Matt's dick, once, twice, quick and rhythmic, and if she chokes on her own tongue when he twists three fingers up inside her, no one says anything. She's so fucking wet she's dripping into his hand, grinding down so hard that he's almost supporting her singlehandedly. She wraps her free arm around his shoulders for more leverage, spine arching to press their chests together.

He ducks his head. Bites down on the jut of her collarbone, quick and painful, which is what does it. She throws her head back and comes, thighs shaking, faintly registering the soothing chase of Matt's tongue across her neck. She tingles all the way down to her curling toes. She clenches the fist around Matt's dick and twists her wrist twice, fingers pressing in just beneath the tip. His shoulders tense, power coiled beneath her forearm, the shift of muscles bunching together—and then he comes, too, a quiet sob escaping his mouth, chest heaving.

They stay crushed against the wall for a long moment. Claire slides a hand into Matt's sweaty hair, shoving the fringe back so she can see his face, carefully blank. "I'm sorry—" Matt begins, the entire Catholic Church speaking through its mouthpiece. Claire rolls her eyes and cuts him off with her mouth, the steady swipe of her tongue against his lips.

When she pulls back, she says, simple as anything, "Listen." He stops fidgeting. "No regret, is there?"

He pauses, briefly. Tilts his head, listening for something only he can hear. "No," he says at last, lopsided smile emerging on his face. "But you do want something."

Claire rests her head against the back of the wall. Considers how much she might regret this in the morning, and thinks the excuse of acting stupid under cover of darkness still has a little mileage left. "Yeah," she says, knocking a heel against the back of his knee. "Your real number." She beams at the look on his face. "Who knows when I might need a defense attorney?"